“Well,” Gaedynn said, an arrow still resting on his bow, “that was interesting.” He turned to Jhesrhi and arched an eyebrow. “Can you explain it?”

“No,” she said. A line of blue and yellow flame rippled down her staff, then guttered out.

“How odd,” the archer said. “I thought you were privy to all his divine secrets.”

“Don’t start,” Aoth said. “We have work to do.” He gestured to Oraxes and Meralaine. “You too.”

Shala started around the campfire. “Captain, if-”

“No, High Lady,” said Aoth. “Thank you, but no. This is a matter for the Brotherhood.” He led his fellow mages and Gaedynn into a stand of oaks.

“Actually,” Oraxes said, “Meralaine and I aren’t sellswords either.”

“Shut up,” said Aoth. “Here’s the plan. I’m going to sneak after the dragons and eavesdrop.”

Gaedynn smiled. “That sounds a little dangerous.”

“That’s why I need every enchantment anyone can cast to help me hide.”

“It also sounds like work for an expert scout.”

“You don’t speak Draconic.”

Oraxes swallowed. “I speak some. And I can veil myself even better than I can somebody else.”

“Thanks,” said Aoth. “But it’s my stupid idea, and I’ll run the risk. If I get caught, none of you knew anything about it.”

“Captain …” Meralaine’s voice trailed off, but she finished her thought by indicating Jhesrhi with a tiny jerk of her head.

“It’s all right,” Gaedynn said. “She’s still one of us. Aren’t you, Buttercup?”

“Of course!” Jhesrhi snapped. “But I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I,” said Aoth. “Now everyone start conjuring.”

As he climbed the last few steps, Medrash studied Patrin. Bahamut’s champion wore sturdy garments incorporating a fair amount of leather. They’d provide him with a measure of protection, but not nearly so much as actual armor.

That was good as far as it went. But it just meant the two combatants were equal in one regard, because Medrash wasn’t wearing armor either. When he’d found Balasar’s note, he hadn’t known how dangerous the night would become, and hadn’t wanted to make himself conspicuous by clinking around the city in plate or mail.

He suspected there were ways in which his foe actually had the advantage. Medrash had already exerted himself and expended mystic Power. He’d been scratched by a purplespawn’s tail, and though he’d used Torm’s gifts to heal himself, he might still have a trace of sleep poison in his veins to slow him down. Whereas Patrin was presumably fresh.

But at least Medrash had truth and right on his side, and never mind that Patrin had just asserted exactly the same thing.

As he took his starting position opposite the other paladin, Patrin said, “I never wanted this. I still believe our gods intended us to be friends.”

“Then don’t fight,” Medrash said. “Come with us to Tarhun and let him determine the truth.”

Patrin shook his head. “I can’t. Not now that I know you hate us enough to lie.” He drew his sword, gave Medrash just enough time to do the same, and charged him.

Medrash spat lightning. It flickered down Patrin’s torso, and he stumbled and shuddered. Medrash sprinted forward, his point extended at the other warrior’s sword arm.

But Patrin recovered from the shock before his adversary could close the distance. He sidestepped and shouted Bahamut’s name. His blade blazed with silvery light as he cut at Medrash’s flank.

Medrash saw that his own attack was going to miss and snapped his blade across his body just in time to parry. Charged with the Platinum Dragon’s Power, Patrin’s stroke almost jolted his weapon from his grip. But only almost, and then he plunged on by.

Which carried him out of striking range but put his back to his foe. Using one of Balasar’s favorite moves, Medrash ducked, whirled, and slashed.

The cut didn’t hit anything, because Patrin wasn’t rushing in to take him from behind. Instead, Bahamut’s champion chanted, swept his sword through a star-shaped figure, then thrust it out.

Once again the blade flared with white light, and for that same instant, Medrash saw the ghostly form of a pale, gleaming dragon behind his foe. Bahamut’s head snapped forward, and his jaws gaped.

Medrash threw himself to the side. Still, he couldn’t avoid the blast entirely, and it was as fierce and frigid as any north wind that ever blew. It staggered him and chilled him.

Patrin rushed in and cut at his opponent’s flank. Still off balance and shuddering, Medrash managed to parry, but not well. His defense robbed the stroke of some of its force, but Patrin’s sword jolted through it to gash his forearm.

Patrin instantly followed up by spewing flame in Medrash’s face. Burned, dazzled, Medrash reeled backward and swept his blade through a defensive pattern. He prayed that one of the parries would intercept Patrin’s next sword stroke even if he couldn’t see it.

Steel rang on steel as he deflected a thrust at his leg. Since he still could barely see, he riposted by drawing down Torm’s Power, then clenching his offhand and punching.

Light blazed at Patrin, and a gauntleted fist punched in the center of it. The blast-or the punch; they were one and the same-hurled Bahamut’s champion backward. He reeled but stayed on his feet.

Medrash reached out to Torm again. The resulting surge of vitality washed the blurriness and the stinging from his eyes. His sword arm kept bleeding though, and it was starting to throb.

“That’s first blood,” Patrin said, “and a wound that guarantees you can’t win. Please yield. There’s no dishonor in it.”

Medrash shook his head. “I won’t fail Torm and our people,” he rasped.

“Then I’ll make it quick.” Patrin advanced.

It actually wasn’t quick. Medrash judged that although Patrin was a good swordsman, he was a notch better, and the difference protected him for the next several phases. It enabled him to parry or dodge sword stroke after sword stroke ablaze with argent Power. But with fatigue and blood loss slowing him down, he could neither go on the offensive nor score with a riposte.

He might be able to channel a little more of Torm’s might, but not, he judged, enough to save him. Not unless he used it cleverly. He struggled to think of a tactic, and finally a notion came to him.

First he had to open up the distance. He punched the air, and a flash hurled Patrin back as it had before. Medrash swayed as though the magic had taken everything he had, which wasn’t far short of the truth.

Patrin rushed him. Medrash waited until his opponent was almost within striking distance, then clenched his empty hand and jerked his arm back.

For an instant a huge, ghostly fist gripped Patrin and pulled him forward. If Medrash was lucky, maybe it squeezed hard enough to do some damage.

But that wasn’t the reason he’d evoked the effect. It was a magic paladins used to drag reluctant foes within reach of their blades. He hoped that if an opponent wasn’t reluctant, if he was already charging in, then the unexpected yank would throw him off balance.

Patrin pitched forward. Medrash lunged. His sword drove deep into Patrin’s chest. Bahamut’s champion crumpled to his knees, then fell forward.

For a few heartbeats, everyone was silent. Medrash could feel the shock and the welling grief of the other cultists like a great reverberation implicit in the stillness.

Then Nala screamed, “He cheated! The Daardendrien cheated! Kill them!”

Her followers surged at Medrash, and at Balasar and Khouryn at the top of the steps, like a noose snapping tight around a hanged outlaw’s neck.

Patrin heaved himself up on an elbow. His form glowed with pearly light, and somehow-even fallen, struggling in a spreading pool of his own blood-he seemed indomitable and majestic.

“Stop!” he croaked, and there was power in that too. It should have been inaudible to anyone even a pace or two away, but Medrash was certain the entire crowd could hear it. “He didn’t cheat. Do what I promised. Don’t disgrace your god. Or me.” His body slumped. He plainly couldn’t hold his head up any longer.